by Linda Barnes
“So what do you think I should do?”
“Stop worrying. Donagher was probably right when he said the sniping was a random incident. Even if it wasn’t, he might not have been the target. Maybe that hairy Vietnam vet is screwing his neighbor’s wife. Maybe one of your ex-cop buddies is after you.”
“I wasn’t there. I was talking with you, remember? Isn’t there any angle I can take off on? I’m going crazy doing nothing.”
“Just stick with Donagher until the election and—”
“And?”
“Nothing. No rabbits out of my hat.”
“If anything else should come to you—”
“Sure. And in the meantime, maybe you could talk Donagher out of running the marathon.”
“Yeah,” Collatos said gloomily. “And maybe I could talk him out of breathing.”
“The cops provide good security the day of the race. Thousands of them line the course. They’ve had celebrity runners before. Cabinet members, movie stars …”
“Think about it, Spraggue. If somebody wants to kill Donagher, what an opportunity …”
“If Donagher were going to be the front-runner, yes. Then I’d make damn sure I had somebody covering the rooftops along the route. A sniper could take down the front-runner anytime, maybe even the guy coming in second or third. Where do you figure Donagher’s going to wind up?”
“Hell, he’ll be damned pleased to hit the top hundred. He hasn’t run seriously in five years. And back when he came in second, in ’62, two hours and twenty-three minutes took home the laurel wreath. The women are running that now.”
“Then I’d tell Donagher not to tie a helium baloon to his wrist, not to wear a bright red campaign poster on his chest. Put him in with a bunch of other guys in running shorts and I doubt our sniper could single out a senator in the midst of ten thousand runners.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“I talked to the cops and they’re going to put some sharpshooters on the roofs, starting in Cleveland Circle. Cops and crowds are so thick after that … It’s before—”
“The spectators are jammed in all along the route.”
“You going to be there?”
The elaborate casualness of the question set off warning bells. “Why?”
“I’ve been checking the route and I was wondering …”
Spraggue sighed. “What?”
“The top of Heartbreak Hill. If I were a sniper, that’s where I’d pick.”
“Why?”
“There’s that moment when the runners come up the hill; they’re silhouetted against the background one by one. And Boston College has all those towers around …”
“You want me to watch the race from Heartbreak Hill?”
“Would you?”
“You want me to be your water boy?”
“Nah. The senator has gofers stationed all along the roads for that. Just be there, Spraggue, Okay?”
They shook hands on the deal.
NINE
Kathleen, alas, after that missed connection on Friday night, had definitely lost interest. By Sunday’s As You Like It matinee, Spraggue had married her twenty-seven times on stage—and still no consummation. He had to admit he was losing interest himself. He found Kathleen more charming as Celia than as Kathleen, wished the attractive dark-haired actress playing Rosalind looked a little less like Kate Holloway, or, alternately, that she were not married.
When he left the theater, face scrubbed and sore, a man was waiting by the stage door. Not a cop. His gray wool suit had cost a month of policeman’s pay; his blue silk shirt, possibly a week. His fingers played nervously with the knot in his soberly elegant tie. If they hadn’t moved, Spraggue might have mistaken the man for a store-window dummy.
His blankly handsome face lit up as Spraggue tried to pass, and he stuck out his right hand in anticipation of a handshake.
“Ed Heineman, TV-4,” was how he introduced himself.
Spraggue suppressed the desire to ask whether the initials stood for transvestite or television. There was the faintest trace of stubble on the man’s chin, which ruled out the first possibility, and there was the immediate sense of familiarity, which supported the second. Not that he recalled seeing Heineman on the midget screen; he had seen Heineman clones, boy-men for whom the words clean-cut and fresh-faced had been invented.
The planes in the man’s face were stronger than his handshake. He had brownish blond hair, razor cut, gleaming with studied casualness—and possibly hairspray. Spraggue returned the handshake, gripping a little harder than necessary.
Heineman removed a small notebook from his pocket, a leatherbound notebook so slim it hadn’t disrupted the line of his suit. He flipped it open to a clean page, slipped a stub of pencil from a band of leather near the binding, and said with a faintly Southern drawl, “What have you come up with on the Donagher business?”
Spraggue had learned the poker face early in life, at a time when the comings and goings of the Spraggue family had been fodder for gossip columnists and intrusive insensitive photographers, mastering it in all its icy perfection at his parents’ funeral. It settled over his features as he peered around him. The Square was crowded with pedestrian traffic. A lot of passersby wore running shoes. The out-of-towners in for the marathon liked to catch a glimpse of Harvard. He couldn’t see anyone holding a TV camera. They didn’t make them small enough to be imperceptible. Not yet.
He said, “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk about it?”
“Where?”
“The Harvest Bar is noisy, but it’s close.”
“Fine.”
The red-haired waitress knew Heineman by name. She fussed over him, wiping the already spotless butcherblock table with a damp rag until it sparkled, turning on a full-voltage smile, so powerful it drew the glances of other patrons, who, with extreme casualness, indicated to their companions that a presence, a celebrity, was in the very same room!
Heineman made conversation while Spraggue ordered a glass of wine. How much he’d enjoyed the production of As You Like It, mostly.
“Do you have any identification?” Spraggue asked.
“Ed Heineman,” the man said, stunned. “The waitress knows me. Everyone—I guess you haven’t seen the weekend news lately.”
“You must have a card or something.”
The man went fishing in his hip pocket, eager to dispel the idea of possible fraud. He opened an impeccable card case, displayed Edward Heineman’s driver’s license embellished with Edward Heineman’s photo. Even the Registry of Motor Vehicles hadn’t been able to take a bad picture of the man. Spraggue feigned nearsightedness to get the card case into his own hands, clumsily dropped it, and spent a moment shuffling through the plastic sleeves to get back to the license before handing it back.
“So what is this about?” Spraggue said, sipping his glass of Burgundy. Heineman drank Scotch on the rocks.
“The Donagher death threats,”
“Why talk to me about that?”
Heineman stared at his drink. “A tip.”
“You checked this tip out with the senator?”
“Might have.”
“I can’t very well comment on something I know nothing about. Not for the record.” Spraggue signaled for the waitress, asked her to bring the check.
“Off the record,” Heineman said.
“Off the reccord, what did you expect to get?”
“The story from your angle.”
“Which is?”
“You were in on that disturbance at the reservoir. Did Donagher hire you after that? Or,” he said, when Spraggue didn’t respond, didn’t even raise an eyebrow, “are you investigating something else for the senator, something of a more personal nature?”
“You’ve got some inaccurate information, Mr. Heineman.”
“Ed,” the man said ingratiatingly.
Spraggue ignored him, waiting for the check.
“Look,” Heineman said, “I k
now you’ve been to Donagher’s house. The police—”
“Are they your source?”
“I’m not divulging any sources.”
“Fine with me. I’m not divulging any answers.”
The waitress edged her way through the crowd to their table while Heineman got flustered. “Let me pay for your drink at least,” he said angrily. “I’m not doing this well. I just want a story. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me. This is a tough town to break into. I got this tip and it seems hot; it involves a lot of well-known names. This is a slow news day. I’m just following up on a possible lead the way any reporter would. I know I’ve got a lot to prove in this town, partly because of, well, what I look like, and partly because of where I work. TV newspeople aren’t exactly respected around here. I’d give my eyeteeth to break a major story within six weeks of arriving, spit in the face of those damn holy print people—”
The man was starting to look positively human. His face was getting red, as if his tie had suddenly tightened up and turned into a noose.
“Is this an indication of your usual reportorial finesse?” Spraggue asked, watching the Scotch waver in its glass as Heineman banged his hand on the tabletop.
“Dammit, no,” the reporter said. “I’m usually … I mean, I’m damn good at my job.”
“Yes?”
“I should never have done this,” Heineman muttered. He snatched the check off the table, knocking the bar glass to the floor in a shower of golden liquid and broken glass. It missed the elegant tie, the blue shirt, the gray suit, and soaked a paunchy gentleman at the next table. Heineman marched off to the bar, paid the check, and left without a backward glance. He didn’t even smile at the waitress, who looked crushed by his indifference. A murmur from the crowd followed him out the door.
There were two telephones in an alcove near the entrance, one in working order. Spraggue waited for a woman in tight jeans to finish relating a tale of automotive repair woes. He fed a dime into the machine, dialed, and got an answer after five rings.
“Let me talk to her, Pierce,” he said.
“Could you possibly call back after seven?”
“Don’t give me that. She’s playing some game and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Disturb her.”
“Well …” Pierce sounded hesitant.
“Yell at her.”
The sound that came over the receiver managed to be shocked and refined at the same time. A man behind Spraggue coughed, just a gentle reminder that there was only one usable public phone and it was highly sought after.
“I am not playing games.” Mary’s voice came over so strongly that he held the receiver away from his ear. “I was meditating; and you have interrupted me. I will never reach a higher plane of existence if you—”
“Do you remember a little conversation we had about threats on some politician’s life?”
“I am far from senile.”
“You didn’t happen to give out the information that I was interested in the case? To a newsman?”
“How could I, not being privy to that information?”
“Someone did.”
“Will you be on the six o’clock news, dear? Which station?”
“Aunt Mary—”
“I admit that I have selfishly enjoyed occasional snooping at your behest.”
“And that you would like to see the formation of a firm of private investigators with Spraggue and Hillman on the front door in gold leaf.”
“My dear, it is late in life for me to consider taking up a new profession and I would insist that the door say Hillman and Spraggue.”
“I thought so.”
“But I did not abet the media.”
“An Edward Heineman from Channel 4 thinks I’m up to my neck in Donagher’s troubles.”
“Channel 4. That’s the new weekend boy, the one who—”
“Yes.”
“What you just heard over the phone was my mind clicking into gear. And it is past due, Michael. Past due. I told you I’d never sleep from thinking about it—”
“What?”
“It was something in the conjunction of the phone call and the news. But I couldn’t come up with it.”
“Mary, tell me the important part first and then fill in the blanks.”
“Edward Heineman was the man who telephoned and asked if you were ‘on the case.’”
“Are you sure?”
“Of that voice? Of course.”
“Thanks.”
That answered one question.
Spraggue ordered another glass of wine at the bar, mulled over the other questions as he drank. Like who tipped Heineman off? Was Heineman really working a story? If he was, why didn’t he have a camera crew along?
And most important: Why did Heineman carry in his card case the dog-eared photo of a woman who was a dead ringer for the blonde who’d left Donagher’s by the back door?
TEN
Sunday evening’s As You Like It passed like a dream, all disconnected sequences, interminable waits, and sudden urgencies. Tired, Spraggue found himself settling into the predictable rhythm of a show performed too often; he had to struggle against frozen pat responses, find new actions, new activities.
Two curtain calls, each with a modest swell of applause when he bowed. Home. The silence pressed the walls of his apartment inward until he took refuge in the radio and half a bottle of Beaulieu Cabernet. It took time, hours sometimes, for his body to come down from the high of performance, descend to the calm of sleep.
The phone jangled. At first it was part of his dream, instantly, senselessly incorporated. But its shrill insistence stilled the dream and he sat up in bed.
He cursed the moment when he’d deliberately arranged the furniture so that he’d have to leave the comfort of the bed in order to answer the phone. This had occurred while he was still a private investigator and apt to get calls of some importance in the middle of the night. The furniture-rearrangement binge had postdated a 2 A.M. phone call, a conversation during which, according to the other party, he’d agreed to some extremely illegal activities. The next morning, with no memory of the call, he’d gone out and almost gotten himself killed.
He swung long legs out of their blanket cocoon. Tomorrow he’d move the end table and the telephone back. Get rid of the “scene of the crime” kit. Maybe then he’d be more convincing when he denied being a private eye. Maybe even Menlo would believe him. Even Aunt Mary.
The phone rang on. Spraggue made it over to the table in the dark, fumbled with the receiver, picked it up fully expecting a wrong number, possibly a frat house ordering pizza. Or Aunt Mary forgetting that lesser mortals slept.
“Spraggue?” The voice was sloppy drunk; if it hadn’t called out his name, he’d have hung up after roasting some punk’s ears with choice curses.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me. Your old dumb buddy, Collatos. You expecting somebody else, pal?”
The voice was slurred, unsteady.
“What the hell do you want now? It’s late.”
“Hey, hey, that’s no way to talk to a guy. Listen. I gotta tidbit for you. But you gotta give me your word not to repeat this.”
“What?” Spraggue closed his eyes, shook his head, and regretted responding to Collatos’ bait at the reservoir.
“It’s a little secret, jus’ a secret.”
“If you’ve got something to say, say it. This is no time for games, Collatos.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Collatos sing-songed. “Sorry I bothered you. It’s just that I figured it out. That’s all. Figured it out and not to worry … Oh, hello,” Collatos said suddenly. He drew out the last word in a muffled humorous drawl. It sounded as if he’d turned his face completely away from the receiver.
“I hope you enjoy running with a hangover,” Spraggue said impatiently. “Good night.”
“So, Joe,” Collatos said abruptly, speaking directly into the phone again. “Like I said, I’m planning to come in under two-forty, maybe
even a two-thirty if Donagher presses. He can still turn on the speed.”
“What’s this Joe shit?” Spraggue said. “Is somebody listening in?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Joe. Look, I’ve got to get off the phone.”
“Did you find out something or not? Should I bother checking out Heartbreak Hill tomorrow?”
“Hey, Joey, I’ll be in touch. The news’ll keep. How about we see each other after the race? In the Pru garage? I’ll be the one with the sore feet.”
“Okay. Is it something to do with the letters? Do you know who wrote the letters?”
But Collatos had already hung up.
Spraggue flicked the plunger once, twice; a dial tone hummed in his ear.
ELEVEN
Marathon morning was glorious: sixty degrees, low humidity, capped by a bright and cloudless azure sky. A perfect day for spectators, it rated no more than two out of ten on the runners’ weather scale. For runners, a cool, overcast drizzle of a day was ideal. A brisk wind had the Channel 4 commentators squawking like anxious hens; if the runners had too much tail-wind advantage, a record run would not be official. The overkill number of network personalities had no weightier matters to discuss and therefore chatted about wind velocity with a vengeance, shunting the viewers off to hastily established “Weather Centrals,” where earnestly grinning gentlemen displayed colored maps and said, in at least ten different ways, that they weren’t sure, but maybe the wind would die down.
Spraggue had made the pilgrimage out to Hopkinton to view the start of the race three times: once with his parents, when he was a child and they were bound up in the race in some ceremonial capacity; once when he’d driven a friend out to the chaos of the starting line; once as a competitor. He grimaced at the memory.
He’d been a teenager—an impossibly young Harvard freshman, an unregistered entrant who’d never run more than an occasional ten miles with the cross-country team. He’d stumbled, panting, off the course just past Wellesley College, collapsing ignominiously behind the shelter of a merciful pine tree. He’d run out of steam before then, should have abandoned the race at least a mile earlier. But how could he quit at Wellesley, with all those coeds cheering him on?
